“Somebody prayed for me, had me on their mind, they took the time and prayed for me. I'm so glad they prayed, so glad they prayed. I'm so glad they prayed for me.” – Dorothy Norwood
 
I was sitting on the front row of my Systematic Theology class when I got the call that Dad had taken ill. Perhaps it was the tears that glossed over my eyes; maybe it was the slight tremor in my hands as I gathered my belongings or even the look of defeat on my face, but somehow somebody knew I needed prayer.
 
On my way from campus to the airport, a classmate texted me a video (see above) that left me speechless. Hand in hand (in the middle of class) my classmates stood praying and interceding on behalf of my family. I’d love to say this would have happened at any seminary or around any group of people, but I know that’s not the case. My location at the time of the call was completely ordained by God. You see, I could have been anywhere, in any class and around any group of people. Yet, God placed me in a room of intercessors who knew how to call on the name "Jesus."
 
I still receive calls, text messages, emails and cards from people expressing their prayers of hope and comfort. While I will never be able to fully articulate the depth of my gratitude, know that your prayers have contributed greatly to my livelihood and healing; know that your prayers have always and will always make a difference;  know that I do not take it for granted that you’ve taken the time to pray for my family and me. Thank you.

I recently learned of a colleague in ministry who unexpectedly lost a member of their immediate family. When I heard the news my eyes locked with my iPhone, my heart sunk and I was at a loss for words. I didn't know their deceased spouse, but I knew that immediate feeling of shock. Every time I hear of someone dying, I am reminded of the initial shock and disbelief. I am also reminded that everyone is going through "something."

I understand that losing both parents is tragic, but along this journey I've gained so much strength from people going through things I could not imagine- The teen who is facing HIV, the woman in the beauty shop who lost her father and husband within two months, the newlyweds who miscarried heir first born and the person newly diagnosed with an aggressive cancer. People are going through STUFF and making it every step of the way. 
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I find strength in the courageous men and women I encounter on a daily basis who are pushing through life's trials and tribulations. No two seasons of life are comparable, so I dare not suggest one season to be better or worse than another. However, I can say that there is so much to learn from others who are going through their own seasons of life with grace, endurance and love. Never forget that the way you go through your season can be the very thing that gives strength and courage to someone pressing their way through their life.

Ever since Mom died I’d asked God why? I’d become enamored with understanding the fullness of what I was facing. I prayed, they died. I longed for them, they seemed so far away. Yet, within the two months after Dad passed, there was a shift in my thinking. Suddenly, there was a shift in the core of my why. Instead of focusing on why my parents died, I started focusing on why God kept me through it all. There are people who literally “lose it” after the death of one parent. Yet there I was facing the loss of two parents in such a short period of time and I was still functioning; I was still believing.
 
It was in exploring the why of my provision that I began embracing the truth that God had a greater plan and purpose for my life. The way I see it, if God kept me through this tragedy, surely, He has a greater plan and purpose for my life.  I could spend the rest of my life asking God why He took my parents, but how much more encouraging is it to ask why he is keeping me. Surely God has something up His sleeve. If God didn’t have a plan for me, they would have buried me right next to my parents. However, since God still has a plan for my life, I couldn’t die even at the most vulnerable time of my life...and neither can you.

 
On the average day, I don’t think about the death of my parents. Instead, I think of them being alive and very much present in my day to day endeavors. I think of funny comments from Mom and hilarious facial expressions from Dad. I think of their advice and often consider what they would “say” when making decisions. I don’t think on my parents with sadness, but it is the flashbacks that pull so tightly at my heart.
 
Although 90% of the flashbacks I have of my parents are positive, there are 10% that are daunting. The flashback of mom’s final moments; the flashback of me running down the hall to get the doctor; the flashback of mom’s lifeless body under the sheet being pushed into the morgue; the flashback of me screaming on the phone with my uncle in distress; closing mom’s casket at her funeral; Dad’s sunken cheeks; Dad’s cries for “help”; both of their caskets being lowered into the ground. Those are the scenes etched in my mind that I will never be able to forget…and I am not sure I want to.
 
You see, it is the flashbacks that are daunting, but the flashbacks also remind me of what God has brought me through. I literally had a seat at death’s table and lived to tell about it. There are many who don’t get up from that seat; many who lose their minds at that seat. Yet, in those moments when I found myself emotionally lifeless, God kept me, covered me and breathed life into me.

There are many who have flashbacks to their past and are left in a state of distress, regret and pain. Yet, there is a power that arises when you can think on your toughest and most tragic moments without the moments themselves having power over you. 

​One of the re-occurring words of comfort offered to me during the death of my parents’ was “You will find your ‘new normal.’” I wasn’t quite sure what it meant and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I didn’t want a new normal, I wanted my old normal back. I wanted Mom to call me everyday and I wanted to call Dad fussing about him sneaking doughnuts into the house (he was diabetic); I wanted to look into Dad’s hazel eyes, feel mom’s warm smile and linger in their embrace. I wanted my old, but had no choice but to embrace something new.

Moving forward has its pros. I am no longer planning funerals or making burial arrangements; I am no longer driving between Atlanta and North Carolina every weekend; I am no longer spending the entirety of my days in estate meetings. Instead, I sleep with my phone on silent, I'm reading books I had put to the side, and I am progressing in ministry. Needless to say, I am moving forward and constantly learning about myself.

Moving forward is refreshing and liberating, but it is also scary. There is always a part of me that looks toward my parents for their input in everyday decisions. Mom and I used to sit and dream for hours, making a bucket list for some of our most exciting plans in life. Yet, as these plans come into fruition, I long to share them with her. When I met the man of my dreams, I wanted nothing more than to bring him home to meet my parents. I wanted Mom to comment on his looks and spirituality; I wanted Dad to show him his guns (so embarrassing lol). When I got called to a long-desired preaching engagement, I wanted to call Mom screaming with excitement; Whenever I travel, I still pick up my phone to call Mom to let her know I made it. I am moving forward in this “new normal” but it is still weird, awkward and uncomfortable.

The only thing I dreaded more than Mom’s funeral was the family viewing to approve her body the day before. I’d had the opportunity to avoid the viewing for my grandparents, but I knew this was one “opportunity” I couldn’t ignore.
 
I arrived at the funeral home with my family and close friends early that Saturday morning. I was in a solemn mood, for the last time I’d seen Mom she was being rolled under a dark sheet into the morgue of the hospital.
 
As we gathered outside of the chapel doors, we were greeted by the funeral director who asked if we were “ready.” The white double doors were opened and just like that, my mother’s body was in full view. I felt my heart drop to the pit of my stomach as I turned to walk away from the doors. Tears streamed down my face for I knew it was going to be hard, but I just couldn’t take that view.
 
When I got myself together we walked down the aisle and stood above my mother’s body that was once so full of life. After encountering her body in a casket, the deep grief that had consumed me in the hours’ prior was gone. 
 
I never knew how people could say the dead looked “good” until I saw my mother in that casket. She looked stunning- Her hair was perfect, glasses straightened, face perfectly plump and the shade of her melanin was perfect. What a relief it was to see Mom embody such beauty again, for in her final moments of life she looked so tired, exhausted and frail.
 
As we fellowshipped in the chapel of the funeral home, many family members took pictures of Mom’s body. As I glanced at the pictures, there was something odd; something that truly stood out to me. None of the pictures looked like Mom. When looking into the casket, Mom looked just like herself. However, the smartphone pictures captured a different view. I kept looking back and forth between the casket and the pictures, but it just looked so different to me. The woman in the pictures was not my mom.
 
To this day I often wonder why the pictures captured an image so different from what I saw with my own eyes. Perhaps the pictures made it look too “real” (while being present I could simply pretend she was asleep); perhaps it’s something I will never truly “get” or understand; perhaps the pictures simply captured a different view.

​In Dad’s final days he got in this habit of yelling “Help!” I vividly recall lounging in the oversized brown leather recliner across from his Hospice bed when out of a deep sleep he began yelling “HELP! HELP! HONEY HELP!” Startled, yet determined to keep my cool, I got up and walked to the left side of his bed. With terror and anguish, his hazel eyes locked with my deep brown gaze as he continued yelling, “HELP!” “Daddy” I began in the most soothing voice I could muster, “What is it? What do you need?” Yelling as loudly and aggressively as he could he said “HELP! I NEED HELP! HONEY HELP!”

My eyes couldn’t help but fill with tears, though I couldn’t let them fall. For after months of doing all I could for Dad I was in a place where I could no longer provide the help he needed. All I could do was promise everything would be “OK” as I took a seat beside his bed and started praying for my daddy and interceding for peace. Dad soon drifted off into a sleep from which he would not awake.

There are many hypotheses that would give reason to my father’s final plea, but I believe Dad was running from death that day. Yes, he was a Christian and already knew he was dying, but I believe that in seeing the angel of death appear, perhaps his time seemed a bit under-calculated; perhaps though ready in the flesh, his heart longed to do just a little bit more while here on earth.

One of the final words I heard Dad say was “Help” and the irony of it all is that help was the one thing I longed for; I wanted nothing more than to feel a type of “help” that would ease my pain and halt the horror of my reality. For it was “help” that I’d been crying out for since Mom died.

On many occasions, since the loss of my parents, I’ve cried out for “Help” from God. You know, on those days when my prayers are muffled between a rush of tears and a lack of understanding. The truth is that my desire for “help” continues to be the constant in my ongoing conversations with God. There is something about “help” that only God can provide; about a type of “help” that serves as a balm to my broken heart. While I can’t describe it, I can feel it and anyone around me can see it. God’s help is what allows me to get up each morning; God’s help is what allows me to smile and find joy even in this season of my life; God’s help wipes my tears and holds me close; God’s help aligns me with the people needed to move forward in life; God’s help is what allows me to still testify of God’ goodness and grace even during traumatic loss. I am grateful for God’s help.

​One of the re-occurring words of comfort offered to me during the death of my parents’ was “You will find your ‘new normal.’” I wasn’t quite sure that it meant and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I didn’t want a new normal, I wanted my old normal back. I wanted Mom to call me everyday and I wanted to call Dad fussing about him sneaking doughnuts into the house (he was diabetic);  I wanted to look into Dad’s hazel eyes, feel mom’s warm smile and linger in their embrace. I wanted my old, but had no choice but to embrace something new.
 
Moving forward has its pros. I am no longer planning funerals or making burial arrangements; I am no longer driving between Atlanta and North Carolina every weekend; I am no longer spending the entirety of my days in estate meetings.  Instead, I sleep with my phone on silent, I serve God with the love of my life, and I am progressing in ministry. Needless to say, I am moving forward and constantly learning about myself.
 
Moving forward is refreshing and liberating, but it is also scary. There is always a part of me that looks toward my parents for their input on my everyday decisions. Mom and I used to sit and dream for hours, making a bucket list for some of our most exciting plans in life. Yet, as these plans come into fruition, I long to share them with her. When I met the man of my dreams, I wanted nothing more than to bring him home to meet my parents. I wanted Mom to comment on his looks and spirituality; I  wanted Dad to show him his guns (so embarrassing lol). When I got called to a long-desired preaching engagement, I wanted to call Mom screaming with excitement; Whenever I travel, I still pick up my phone to call Mom to let her know I made it. I am moving forward in this “new normal” but it is weird, awkward and still uncomfortable. 

​The day before Mom died was as normal a Tuesday as I could have expected.  I ran a few errands for Mom while she spent the morning cleaning. At one point Mom called me into her room and asked “Kiya, will you please help me hang up these suits.” One by one she unpacked her suitcase from our recent travels and handed me the suits she’d purchased in NYC. When she came across a till-colored suit coat with grey dress pants she said, “This one is my favorite.” I smiled and said “It is pretty” to which she responded, “Kiya, THIS one is my favorite.” I caught the emphasis she placed on it, but didn’t take it as more than her expressing strong admiration for a new suit.
 
Later that morning Mommy said, “I was going to go to the hospital today, but I have some business to take care of in Durham.” She explained the business and I promised to take care of it in the coming days if she would simply let me take her to the hospital. Surprisingly, Mom bargained with the tradeoff of me greasing her scalp. “What? Mommy, I don’t mind but not one is going to see your hair at the hospital. We are only going to be there a day or two.” “Kiya,” she said sternly, “I would like you to grease my scalp.” Confused, I did as I was told as she sat peacefully.
 
When I finished, she jokingly said “Now, let me go look in the mirror to see what you have done!” Smiles. I suppose Mom approved of my handiwork (lol) because when she came back into the room she was ready to go.
 
Time after time I’ve re-played this interaction in my mind. I smile. Nostalgic memories of Mom greasing my grandmother’s scalp on a Saturday afternoon linger in my mind. I smile. I think of the beautiful till-colored suit, which was the suit in which Mom was buried. I smile. Though her last 24 hours were full of tears (from me), there were also many, many smiles.

I am patient when it comes to ministry endeavors. I am patient when someone abruptly cuts me off in (Atlanta) traffic. I am patient when a family of deer come inches from taking out my headlights (in NC). I am patient in helping others navigate their trials. I am patient as I lift prayers and climb through Scripture, literature, and biblical commentaries to exegete a text.  I can be very patient, but I’ve found that I lack patience in my grieving process.
 
It’s been six months since Mom passed and two months since Dad transitioned, yet there are still days when I experience the lowest of lows. It is the low points that leave me perplexed and distraught for surely, I should have learned how to cope with the loss by now, right?
 
As a self-proclaimed “over-achiever” I find the grieving process to be exhausting and time-consuming. I’m not fond of crying, so embracing my tears is a matter in and of itself (for another post). Furthermore, making sense of such great and traumatic loss isn’t something that comes over night for I am 29 years old and both of my parents are dead. That truth alone is a mouth-full; it is a truth that I still struggle to embrace some days. The truth of the matter is that I don't enjoy the grieving process (at all), yet when I seek God on the matter He always reminds me of His “grace.”
 
I once heard grace described as “unmerited favor from God.” However, I never considered it in terms of grief until a mentor sternly said, “Kiya, you must give yourself the grace to grieve!” I remember looking at her through tears as she continued, “…you must give yourself permission to feel the way you feel; to experience the fullness of this process.” As silly as it may sound, I’d never thought of grieving in that way. As mentioned in a previous post, I am Type-A, thus the idea of a “process” not having a chronological order didn't exactly bring me comfort. Yet, giving myself the grace to grieve has been the fuel to my everyday functionality.
 
Giving myself the grace to grieve isn’t always lingering on fond memories or holding the pearls Mom gifted me our last Christmas together. Instead, giving myself the grace to grieve is holding onto the uncertainty of each day; it is constantly telling Jesus how much I need Him on this journey; it’s crying to experience a God who wipes my tears; it's not "faking" energy when I really don't have it; it's being frustrated with God's will without feeling like a hypocrite;  it’s sitting quietly with no words to say, knowing that Jesus is interceding on my behalf. This type of grace gives me permission to be impatient with myself, yet the ability to forgive my impatience.
 
Giving myself the grace to grieve is an everyday process. Yet, in this process, I’m also learning to grace other areas of my life: the grace to forgive quicker, the grace to grow stronger, the grace to unapologetically “be”, and the grace to move forward without knowing every detail of God’s plan for my life. 

Mom had years of medical mistrust that stemmed from her uncle falling dead in a doctor’s office. That incident, mixed with her own experiences that she deemed “unfair” made her incredibly critical of any medical facility.
 
After being admitted into the hospital on August 16th, the fatal diagnosis came in and I was left trying to be strong. I tried not to cry as the doctor looked me in the eyes and said “This is serious! Do you understand how sick your mother is?” I tried to stay strong as the next doctor came in and said “I’d give her 6 months to live.” Wait, she can’t die or be that close to death, it’s my Mommy; it’s MY Mommy.
 
As warm tears streamed down my face Mommy looked at me and said “Kiya, don’t you worry about those doctors. Only God knows when I am going to go. Everything is going to be ok.” “But Mommy,” I cried, “You can’t die; I can’t make it without you.” “Yes you can, “she replied, “You are stronger than you think. This will make you a better pastor.”
 
Tears continued to fall as I excused myself from the room. Mom hated seeing me cry and I knew that listening to pessimistic reports would not ease my fear. I stood outside of the room for about 5 minutes after which I returned with a dry face, a smile to hide my fear and a bit of disbelief. In my book, Mommy knew everything so if she said “only God knew” her timing, surely the doctors were wrong.
 
As doctors filtered in and out to observe her symptoms the re-occurring question was, “Why did you not come sooner?” Though Mom found some reasoning to address the doctor’s inquiries, I knew deep in my heart that the reality was “Medical Mistrust.”

​Medical mistrust is threaded throughout the African American community, which is one of the very reasons I’ve chosen to write this blog. It is my hope that my reality encourages a mother somewhere to get a mammogram; that my reality encourages a woman to control her high blood pressure or live a more active lifestyle to avoid heart failure. My reality doesn’t have to be your reality, which is why I will continue giving a voice to health issues impacting our community.

​Praying for the living is something that’s always come natural to me. Perhaps it’s the “Now I lay me down to sleep” prayer that was a part of my nightly routine as a kid or maybe it’s the adult prayers for the prosperity and health of my loved ones. Whatever the root, praying for the living is easy or even exciting to me, which is why praying for my parents as they faced death felt like an oxymoron.
 
I vividly recall standing by my mother’s comatose body saying, “Mommy, it’s ok for you to go. Everything is going to be ok…but Mom if this is one of those times where God is going to completely heal you and bring you back, that would be great! I don’t want you to think I’m giving up on you.” Similarly, I prayed daily with Dad in his final weeks and I’d always include, “… this is what the doctors are saying…but we know You, God, can change this entire situation.”
 
Something about praying for my parents in their final hours made me feel as if I was doubting God. As I watched my father’s organs fail, was it pessimistic for me to pray for a smooth transition? Did I administer last rites too soon? Was it too optimistic or even unrealistic for me to pray for his healing? At what point do prayers for “healing” and “restoration” become prayers of “peace” and “understanding”?
 
I’m not sure there was a “right” or “wrong” answer for the questions posed above, but I knew I could not go wrong praying, “Thy will be done.” When I started praying for God’s will, I could better understand that God held the present and the future of my parents’; that He held their current life and their eternal life. For death, itself, was not a “finite” act but a transition.
 
Once I embraced this understanding, I prayed for my parents without the worry of being “right” or “wrong.” I asked God for guidance on how exactly to pray and in response He only required my heart. Thus, my prayers in their final hours became worship. I sang to mom (“When I lay my burdens down”) and I encouraged Dad (“Everything is going to be ok; you are ok”). During my weary time, I found worship. Though I was only 28 when Mom died and 29 when Dad passed, how awesome is it that I had the experiences that I did with my parents? How awesome is it that for 28+ years they poured into me, such that the overflow could hold me in the years I’d have to live without them physically being present? What a glorious God we serve who traded my prayers of uncertainty with blessed assurance.

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As I tried to make sense of my mother’s fatal diagnosis, I called my boyfriend. We’d dated over a year and within that time he’d developed the most beautiful relationship with my parents. Mom used to joke and say, “Kiya, if you don’t let him take you down the aisle, I will take him myself.” He would send Mom flowers and say all the right things to make Dad feel secure in his ability to care for me. He was a gem for sure and I knew that he would know what to say in response to this devastating news... Only, he didn’t.

It was around 1:00am that I found myself on the phone with him. He was quiet. He was cold. “Did you not hear me? What in the world is wrong?” After responding a few minutes with “Nothing” he finally informed me that he no longer wanted to be celibate. For one moment, the tears stopped flowing down my face, my heart stopped racing, and my eyes locked with the cold tile floor of the hospital waiting room.

The moments that followed are a blur, but I remember laughing sarcastically and wishing him well; I remember not being able to embrace the pain of the breakup because I felt so numb. I remember him saying something about feeling distant; I remember literally feeling my heart break.

Hours later (at 4:05pm) mom took her last breath. And just like that, within a matter of hours, I lost my mother who embodied my entire world and my boyfriend who (I thought) embodied my future. I literally felt like my life was being ripped from me.

Since the night of that awful conversation, I’ve embraced the power of forgiveness and we've gone our separate ways. However, I’ve asked God a time or two about the terrible timing-- “God, why that night?” and “God why would you have me go through all of this alone?” In response to my questions I always get an overwhelming sense of peace and a reminder that I haven’t been alone one day on this journey; that God never left me. You see, the pain of the breakup paled in comparison to the loss of my Mom, thus in a weird-twisted-kind of way, the timing was perfect. During this time, I've had the most incredible opportunity to experience intimacy with God; to experience a true covenant relationship with the lover of my soul. Thus, when God does send my husband I will know what God-ordained love actually looks and feels like; I will know for it will reflect the love of God in my life.